Stranger Than Fiction Page #6

that woman gonna feel my pain. "

This one said something

along the lines of:

"Why, yes, these pants are Lycra."

These said, "I'm very sensitive,

very caring...

... and I have absolutely no idea

how to play the guitar. "

"I'm compensating for something.

Guess what. "

And then Harold saw it.

A damaged and terribly mistreated

sea-foam-green Fender...

... staring back at him.

Despite its obvious maladies...

... the guitar spoke

with conviction and swagger.

In fact, it looked Harold directly

in the eye and very plainly stated:

"I rock."

Just breathe. Watch it!

We've got a 21 -year-old male

with a gunshot wound to the chest.

There you go.

Shot in a gang fight?

Harold's not in a gang.

Man in tweed?

There's nothing wrong with him,

he just likes looking at sick people.

Oddly spoken with disdain.

This isn't working.

Well-- I don't even know

why we're here.

I don't think we're supposed

to be here.

- You said I needed visual stimuli.

- I meant a museum.

I don't need a goddamn museum.

I need the infirm.

You are the infirm.

You're right. The problem is

these people aren't dead...

...they're just severely injured.

Excuse me,

where are the dying people?

Most of these people

are sick or injured--

Which is great, don't get me wrong.

- But they're gonna get better,

which doesn't really help me.

Is there any way to see the people

who aren't going to get better?

Excuse me?

I'd like to see, if at all possible,

the ones who aren't gonna make it.

You know, the dead-for-sure ones.

I'm sorry,

are you suffering from anything?

Just writer's block.

With every awkward strum...

... Harold Crick became stronger

in who he was...

... what he wanted,

and why he was alive.

Harold no longer ate alone.

He no longer counted brushstrokes.

- Harold, I'll see you.

- He no longer wore neckties.

Bye, Dave.

And, therefore, no longer worried

about the time it took to put them on.

He no longer counted his steps

to the bus stop.

Instead, Harold did that

which had terrified him before.

That which had eluded him

Monday through Friday...

... for so many years.

That which the unrelenting lyrics...

... of numerous punk-rock songs

told him to do:

Harold Crick lived his life.

But despite resuscitating his life...

... reviving his hope, and instilling

a few wicked calluses...

... Harold's journey

was still incomplete.

And Harold's wristwatch wasn't about

to let him miss another opportunity.

Ms. Pascal?

- Ms. Pascal?

- Mr. Crick.

- Hi.

- Hi.

- Hi.

- Hi.

I'm glad I caught you.

Oh, yeah? Why?

Because I wanted

to bring these to you.

- Really?

- Yeah.

So you can't accept gifts,

but you can give them?

- Listen--

- I don't know.

That seems a little inconsistent,

doesn't it, Mr. Crick?

Very inconsistent, yes.

I'll tell you what.

I'll purchase them.

- No.

- No, no, no, really...

...l'd like to purchase them.

What are they?

Flours.

- What?

- I brought you flours.

And you carried them

all the way here?

Ms. Pascal, I've been odd

and I know that I've been odd.

And I want you.

- What?

- There's so many reasons.

There's so many influences in my life

that are telling me...

...at times quite literally...

...that I should come here

and bring you these...

...but I'm doing this

because I want you.

You want me?

In no uncertain terms.

Isn't there some very clear

and established...

...rule about fraternization?

- Auditor-auditee protocol?

- Yeah.

Yeah, but I don't care.

- Why?

- Because I want you.

Well...

...do you mind carrying those

a little bit further?

Okay.

Okay.

Did you make a key?

No, I just committed it to memory.

- The blue, that's barley flour.

- What's that one?

- The orange?

- Yeah.

I forget.

Right here.

Do you wanna come up?

- To your place?

- Yeah.

I guess I could.

Wasn't that the idea with the flours

and everything?

Honestly, I only figured it out

up to "I want you."

Listen, Mr. Crick...

...I think I like you.

And before I do anything rash,

I'd like to make sure.

I'd like you to come up.

I'd be honored.

Great.

Yeah, he was nuts though.

He got caught when he tried

to get the contract notarized.

No. No.

Was it good?

Thank you.

- You're welcome.

- Can I help you?

No, no, I'm gonna put them in the sink.

Go sit down on the couch.

So do you play the guitar?

- What?

- Do you play the guitar?

Terribly. Someone traded me that

for a wedding cake.

Does that mean I have to claim it

on my taxes now?

- No. I'll leave it out of my final report.

- Oh, thanks.

Do you play?

Not really. I only know one song.

Oh, play it.

No, I don't know it that well, actually.

No, come on. I promise I'm not gonna

laugh at you. Play it.

No, no, no. Maybe some other time.

All right.

Ms. Pascal?

- I... .

- I know.

I want you too.

Harold's life was filled with moments

both significant and mundane.

But to Harold, those moments

remained entirely indistinguishable...

... except for this.

As Ana let out a soft sigh and

repositioned herself against him...

... Harold knew

somewhere in his heart...

... that this was one

of the significant moments.

He knew she was

falling in love with him.

Professor Hilbert. It's a comedy.

- What?

- A comedy.

The woman. The one who hates me.

Ana Pascal?

- Last night... .

- Yeah?

She's falling in love with me.

- She is?

- It's like a miracle.

The voice confirmed it

in the middle of the night.

Well, that's wonderful, Harold.

I mean, it completely nullifies my list,

but that's fantastic.

What list?

These are seven living authors

whose prior work...

...would seem to make them

candidates to write your story...

...based on the criteria you and I

previously determined.

If your narrator is alive,

she's on this list.

But it appears the list

is of little use to you now.

Now that you're gonna live

happily ever after.

Oh, goodie. This woman, Karen Eiffel,

she's one of my favorite authors.

- Hi.

- Hi.

Beautiful tragedies. Just beautiful.

Anyway...

...let me quickly copy this list for you,

just in case.

Sociopathic author.

- I just wanted to thank you.

- Of course.

Listen, please, you must tell me if you

hear the voice of the narrator again...

...just for my own edification.

I will.

Well, it's called Death and Taxes.

Wow. You know, I'm from Texas.

No. Not "Texas." Taxes.

Death and Taxes.

Death and Taxes.

Taxes.

Like the Benjamin Franklin quote.

Precisely so.

This lady's a package,

I'm telling you.

Tell us, what is this next book

going to be about?

It's about interconnectivity.

The looming certainty of death.

Men's fashion accessories.

- Oh, my God, that's her.

- What?

- That's the voice. She's the narrator.

- No, that can't be right.

No, I'm positive.

Harold, this interview's a decade old.

I didn't think anyone actually

wore cuff links anymore.

That's her.

- She's British?

- She's her.

- Karen Eiffel?

- Professor Hilbert, I know that voice.

Crap.

- What's wrong?

- First of all, she wasn't on my list.

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